


So Take a Chance (And Don't Ever Look Back)

by panaili



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panaili/pseuds/panaili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU for 2x06: Never Been Kissed] Instead of redoing the boys vs. girls mash-up competition, Mr. Schuester chooses to copy another tactic from last year to invigorate the New Directions: inviting the competition to McKinley to perform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Take a Chance (And Don't Ever Look Back)

“So, that’s McKinley, huh?” David asked, tilting his head as he stared at the squat concrete building in front of them. He didn’t sound impressed.

“Apparently,” Blaine replied.

“I knew we should have insisted they come to Dalton,” David muttered, rolling his eyes. “This place looks like a prison.”

Blaine gave David a sidelong glance, fighting the urge to laugh at the grossly offensive comment, when a completely unrelated thought suddenly struck him.

“Oh, crap,” he said, stopping dead in the middle of a sparsely populated courtyard and staring down at his hands, as though expecting something to appear with magic.

David turned, frowning. He waved off Thad who moved to do the same, gesturing for the rest of the group to follow their guide -- a short brown-haired girl who didn’t seem to stop talking – into the unfamiliar school. “What’s wrong?” David asked, his expression torn between annoyance and genuine concern.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Blaine, rolling his eyes. “I forgot my bag in the bus, and it has my cell phone and the extra sheet music, and I know we don’t _need_ it, but—”

David waved him off, interrupting, “Blaine, just go get your bag, it’s not going to kill us for you to be a minute late. Want me to wait?”

“Nah,” Blaine said, grinning at the taller boy. He gestured toward the mid-sized school, which seemed positively tiny compared to the sprawling grounds at Dalton, and added, “I’m sure I can somehow manage to find my way.”

Five minutes later, after locating his bag and making his way into the esteemed McKinley High, Blaine was regretting his confidence. The layout of the school wasn’t particularly complicated, but unlike his old school (and Dalton), McKinley didn’t have any helpful signs pointing the way to various rooms and there weren’t any teachers in sight. Students moved quickly around him, only casting an occasional curious glance at his uniform before quickly ignoring him again. He tried to catch someone’s eye, but from the way the lockers were slamming shut, getting home was a much bigger concern than some short guy in a blazer.

Just as he was beginning to get frustrated, Blaine caught sight of a slender boy standing mid-way down the hall, who was frowning as he opened his locker. He wasn’t sure why he thought that this kid would be more helpful than the multitude of other students who had already ignored him, but Blaine recognized the sweater the kid was wearing from the July issue of Vogue and figured that, if nothing else, he could at least ask where on earth the boy had managed to find quality clothing in _Lima, Ohio_.

Striding quickly over to the boy’s locker, Blaine stopped just short of him and said, “Hey.”

And maybe he had moved too quickly or something, but the boy literally flinched before glancing quickly over at Blaine, eyes wide. He blinked a few times, confused, and then looked around, as though he wasn’t sure if Blaine was even talking to him.

In a split second, Blaine could practically see his former self in the kid’s movements, and he numbly wondered if maybe it wasn’t the fancy sweater that had caught his attention. He only took a moment to consider the notion, however, because the boy was starting to look more defensive than surprised and Blaine really didn’t like awkward situations.

“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you or anything. I just – I’m trying to find the choir room.”

The boy blinked, and then gave his outfit such a clear once-over that Blaine could barely stop himself from fidgeting with the hem of his blazer. He looked back up at Blaine with a cool expression, eyebrow raised, and said, “One of the Warblers, I presume.”

And okay, Blaine wasn’t expecting the kid to have such a high voice, but it really seemed to fit him, as though it came as a package deal with fashionable clothes and pretty eyes. Given that the boy seemed to know Blaine was from Dalton off the top of his head, Blaine figured that he was in New Directions, and as such, could probably be helpful.

Relieved, Blaine replied, “Got it in one. I’m Blaine Anderson. And I think I’m late.”

Instinctively, he reached out a hand to shake, but the boy stared at it like it was some kind of alien gesture.

Undaunted, Blaine kept his hand level, smile never dimming. He knew he was charming – little old ladies couldn’t get enough of him, and little girls fell in love with him every summer at the theme park – and he was _more_ than capable of maintaining a perfectly even expression.

As the seconds ticked by, threatening to make the situation uncomfortable, Blaine leaned forward a little and whispered in a sotto voice, “You’re supposed to shake my hand.”

The boy blinked again, two spots of red appearing high on his cheeks, and he grabbed Blaine’s hand with an odd mix of hesitation and pleasure. His lips twitched in something approaching a smile, and he said, “I’m Kurt Hummel. It’s -- _look out!_ ”

Without warning, Kurt lunged at Blaine, shoving him backward. Blaine stumbled, startled by the movement, but nothing could prepare him for seeing Kurt get hit square in the face with a wave of dark blue ice water, which drenched his hair and dripped down onto his light gray sweater. Moments later, a hulking giant in a bright red jacket walked by, laughing obnoxiously and clapping hands with his similarly-clad companion.

“Oh, man,” the first boy said, chortling as he shoved Kurt back against the lockers, never breaking his stride. “Almost got a two-fer!”

“Maybe next time,” his friend replied, not bothering to look at Kurt or Blaine, even as he called over his shoulder, “Seeya later, _fags_!”

The word sent ice down into Blaine’s stomach, reminding him of all those years he spent dealing with the idiots at his old school. He thought he was over it, that Dalton had cured him somehow, but even now the word made him clench his fists, stomach twisting violently as he watched the two hooligans laugh their way down the hallway. The few students who remained in the hallways jumped out of their way, but none of them spared a glance for the two boys left in the middle of a puddle of ice.

He forced himself to look away, trying not to clench his teeth. Instead he looked over at Kurt, and was startled to see the boy resolutely gathering his books, not even bothering to wipe the blue ice chunks from his hair. His expression was cold, and Blaine could tell it wasn’t just him trying to hold it together – it was _resignation_ , like getting hit in the face with a slushie was some kind of everyday occurrence.

Blaine didn’t realize he could feel angrier now that the two brutes were out of sight, but he could feel his temper rising at the way Kurt’s shoulders were slumped as he stood, holding his bag gingerly away from his sodden sweater.

“What,” Blaine began, hardly able to get the words out, “What the crap was _that_ \--?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kurt cut him off, and his expression was a mirror image of the cold boy Blaine had seen before, as though his small attempt at a smile had simply been wishful thinking on Blaine’s part. He glanced away from Blaine’s aghast expression, lips pursed, and informed him, “If you turn left at the next hallway, the choir room is three doors down, on your right.”

Blaine just stared. Then he managed, “What?”

“I have to go clean up,” Kurt said, like he was talking to a particularly slow five-year-old. “Just tell them I’m going to be late. It doesn’t really matter, my part isn’t that big anyway.”

Blaine wasn’t sure what part of that sentence was more depressing, but before he could wrap his mind around it, Kurt slammed his locker shut and stalked the opposite way down the hallway, ducking into the nearest bathroom. Even from his spot against the lockers, Blaine could see the blue and white female stick figure on the door, but a girl leaving just as Kurt entered didn’t even give him a passing glance.

For a few moments, Blaine just stood there, fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of his bag. Distantly, he heard the sound of voices singing in the general direction of the choir room, but the thought of joining them didn’t even cross his mind. He could hardly think of the Warblers as he replayed the scene in his mind, like an even worse flashback from his middle school days, if his school had been allowed soft drinks and teachers were somehow _nowhere_ to be found.

Before he knew it, Blaine was striding over to the girls’ bathroom and pushing open the door, jaw set resolutely.

Kurt was leaning in front of one of the sinks, washing out his sweater in the small alcove. He had stripped his undershirt off as well, clearly intending to rinse it out next, so he was bent over the white porcelain with nothing more than a pair of tight black jeans and boots on. He still had blue ice in his hair.

For a split second before Kurt saw him, Blaine could see the raw pain in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched over his monotonous scrubbing. Their eyes met momentarily, and Blaine was struck still by the sheer amount of fury he saw in the other boy’s expression.

Then, suddenly, the moment was gone, and Kurt was whirling around, glaring at him. Coolly, he snapped, “I _told_ you to go to the choir room. I’m _fine_.”

Blaine could think of a million things he wanted to say at that moment. _Clearly you’re not fine, if you’re getting hit with slushies and you don’t even seem to care_ seemed too combative, and Blaine might have only known this boy for five minutes, but he was pretty sure he’d summarily lose any argument he started. He considered asking _are you sure you’re all right?_ , but even _he_ wanted to sneer at the condescension inherent in the question. For a moment, he toyed with raging about the bullies, giving both of them an outlet for the anger still crackling through the air, but then he remembered the dull resignation in Kurt’s eyes after the incident. It wouldn’t do any good.

In the end, Blaine figured simplicity was best.

“You pushed me out of the way,” Blaine said, dropping his satchel to the ground beside the door. He didn’t break eye contact with Kurt, even when the shirtless boy sneered at him, and instead offered him a small, pained smile. “I figure the least I can do is help you clean up.”

“I don’t need help,” Kurt replied sharply, though the sneer disappeared slowly from his lips. “Seriously, _don’t worry_. I have to deal with this all the time.”

And that statement made Blaine simultaneously want to rage and cry, but he managed to keep his face impassive in light of Kurt’s expression. He ignored the other boy’s clear discomfort and made his way over to the sink next to Kurt, turning on the water and starting to rinse out the fitted undershirt.

He didn’t look at Kurt as he repeated, “You _pushed me_ out of the _way_ ,” in a tone that boded no arguments. “Trust me when I tell you that I owe you my life. Our council leader has maimed choir members for having a shoelace untied before. If I went to a competition covered in blue slushie, I think he might snap and kill me on the spot.”

At the end of his joke, Blaine glanced up and winked at Kurt, grinning. The slender boy just stared at him in shock for a few moments before hesitantly smiling back, which made him look at least ten times warmer.

“Oh,” Kurt managed to reply, looking a little embarrassed. He ducked his head and focused on scrubbing his soiled sweater with water.

“I take it you know how to keep things from staining, then?” Blaine asked lightly, holding up the white undershirt, which was as clean as hot water was going to make it.

“It’s the only thing I can do,” answered Kurt, shrugging. “I have a stain stick in my bag, but unless I wash it out immediately, it doesn’t do anything, and my dad’s been on my case since the beginning of high school about how high our dry cleaning bills are, so – yeah.” He looked at the sweater forlornly, brow furrowing, and added, “I just hope it isn’t ruined.”

“Don’t worry,” Blaine said. “That’s from the July issue of Vogue. It’s probably out of season by now anyway.”

He smirked when Kurt abruptly turned to stare at him, incredulous, and it took all Blaine had not to laugh out loud at his wide-eyed expression. A piece of slushie finally dislodged itself from Kurt’s hair and dripped quickly down the side of his face, dropping into the sink, but even that wasn’t enough to break the shock.

“Okay, _seriously_ ,” Blaine said, laughing. He gestured for Kurt to wait, and then went to dig in his bag for the monogrammed handkerchief that he knew was shoved in the front pocket, silently thanking his grandmother for trying to instill pride in his family name. Striding back over, he put a steady hand on Kurt’s shoulder – and he could feel Kurt tensing, breath suddenly too shallow, but forced himself to ignore it – and brought the other up to wipe at the ice that was still tangled in Kurt’s hair.

Kurt stared at him, his cheeks rapidly turning red in a way that made his eyes shine brightly green. Blaine made himself stay focused on brushing the ice from Kurt’s hair, as if he didn’t notice the way Kurt was standing rigidly still, braced against the sink, nor the way Kurt’s eyes kept darting disbelievingly between Blaine and the door, like he thought there was some kind of awful, ulterior motive to someone deigning to help him clean up.

And okay, maybe Blaine glanced at Kurt’s lips and wondered, vaguely, what it would be like to kiss him, but mostly the entire thing just made him sad.

So instead of reacting to Kurt’s obvious tension, Blaine swept the final bits of ice from Kurt’s hair and stepped back, regarding the blue-tinged hair with a thoughtful frown, like an artist. “You know,” he said conversationally, “Never let it be said that I support food coloring as hair dye, but I think you could totally rock blue highlights.”

Kurt stared at him for a moment, blush still clearly evident on his cheeks, but it only took a few seconds for him to snap out of his reverie. He laughed weakly and replied, “It would clash with too much of my wardrobe; I could never.”

“Maybe just temporary, then?” Blaine suggested cheekily, grinning brightly. “Like, go for a punk rock look one week? You could make it a theme.”

Kurt’s smile grew slowly, and for the first time since Blaine had started talking with him, the taller boy seemed to relax somewhat. He countered, “I really don’t have enough black in my wardrobe to pull off punk rock.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Blaine murmured, wringing out the white undershirt and handing it to Kurt, who absent-mindedly folded it. “Perfectly good food dye gone to waste, there.”

Kurt laughed, shaking his head, and gave his sweater one final scrub. Before the moment was lost, he glanced over at Blaine and asked tentatively, “So… you read Vogue?”

The note of skepticism was clear in his voice, and Blaine could tell he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop; maybe expecting Blaine to backtrack hastily and throw out some masculine defense, like _no, no, of course not, but my sister kept talking about it_ or _it was the only thing to read in the waiting room at the dentist; it was either that or Highlights_. To be honest, Blaine only read Vogue casually, and it technically _was_ his sister’s subscription, but he could tell by the faint desperate gleam in Kurt’s eye that the other boy hadn’t ever met another boy who would admit to _opening_ the magazine, much less reading it. It wouldn’t do any good to qualify his statement now.

So Blaine replied, “It’s a guilty pleasure,” with a grin. “I don’t actually know anything about fashion, really, but the articles are interesting, and I think it’s a classier guilty pleasure than reading ‘O’, like my sister does. Far fewer articles about menopause.”

“I can see why that’d turn you off,” Kurt said, sounding oddly faint. Blaine looked up from washing his hands, making eye contact, and suddenly the air around them vibrated with tension. For a brief moment, Blaine could see himself straightening and leaning in, kissing away the blushing, hopeful look on Kurt’s face and pressing him up against the wall. Kurt would probably let him. And it had been ages since Blaine had flirted with anyone other than pre-teen girls at the theme park or boys at Dalton who were unfortunately straight, but still confident enough to goof off about it. So part of him was definitely looking at Kurt’s lips, eyeing his long neck and trying really hard not to obviously check out his shirtless chest.

But the cold, rational side of Blaine also remembered the dark, angry look on Kurt’s face when he had first walked into the bathroom, and the dull resignation in his eyes when he picked up his books. That part of Blaine was whispering, _you’re only seeing what you want_ and reminding Blaine of all the times he had been taunted and pushed around, and how _helpless_ he felt -- how _mortifying_ it was -- and suggesting that maybe right now wouldn’t be the best time to make a move.

Even if Kurt was staring at him like he was some kind of wonderful mystery, and Blaine had never felt anyone look at him like that before. It was intoxicating.

But it wasn’t right.

So instead, Blaine broke the gaze and turned away, glancing back toward the door as though he heard something. His cheeks were warm.

“So,” Blaine started, sounding awkward, “are you just going to put your wet sweater back on, or do you have something else? I’d offer to help, but I don’t have anything to lend.” He walked over to his bag as he spoke, like he was going to check, but really he just didn’t want to look over at Kurt again. Not yet.

The tension in the room didn’t evaporate, but the moment was broken, and Blaine could feel the strange electricity fading away slowly. After a few seconds, Kurt replied, “I have an extra shirt in my bag.”

Blaine immediately rerouted and knelt over Kurt’s satchel, which was made of dark leather and looked at least two times more expensive than Blaine’s. Trying to chat over the dissipating energy in the room, Blaine joked, “Do you always keep a spare set of clothes with you?”

There was an awkward pause, and then Kurt answered, “It’s better safe than sorry at this school.”

And really, Blaine should have seen that coming, but the cold reality of Kurt’s situation still struck him by surprise. His jaw clenched unconsciously, harking back to all the times he had felt trapped in his old school, like there was nothing else for him to do but wait it out; wait until he was finally old enough to _get out of there_ and actually start living. He felt like he could hear all of his old desperation in Kurt’s voice, dark and hateful and _sad_ , and the memory of all that rage made him want to punch the wall.

But he was older now, and he froze instead, waiting for the sudden rush of anger to fade away before he trusted himself to speak.

He didn’t look up at Kurt as he began, “You know, at my old school, I got bullied a lot.”

Kurt didn’t reply, but Blaine could feel the weight of his stare. Blaine didn’t turn to face him, not yet; rather, he kept digging through Kurt’s bag for the extra shirt, like the entire situation was something simple and ordinary.

“They mainly called me names. Queer, _fag_ , that sort of thing,” Blaine continued, making an effort to keep his tone neutral. “They beat me up a couple times, but it was in middle school, so – they weren’t that much bigger than me then. It was mostly bruises.”

He located Kurt’s shirt and straightened, turning and handing it to Kurt. Blaine finally met Kurt’s eyes again, and was surprised to see how pained the other boy looked. Part of him had expected Kurt to close off again and look down at him with the same stony expression as before, for presuming to suggest that he knew _anything_ about Kurt’s problems.

But instead, Kurt was staring at him with wide eyes, like this was the first time anyone had ever even _attempted_ to understand what he was going through.

Blaine swallowed, hating the way Kurt’s eyes seemed to bore into him, and he managed to say, “They don’t do it at Dalton, you know. We have a zero tolerance policy. That’s the reason I transferred in the first place.”

He wasn’t trying to recruit Kurt – Dalton was a great school in many ways, but Blaine wasn’t about to become a scout or _whatever_ \-- but he hoped that Kurt could hear what he wasn’t saying: _this school isn’t all there is. You can change your situation, if you need to. It isn’t hopeless._ Because that’s all it had taken for Blaine, back then. Just one person to actually _look_ at him and see how much it _sucked_ to keep trying so hard.

Kurt took a deep breath, abruptly glancing away and blinking rapidly. For a moment, Blaine thought he might not respond, but then Kurt whispered, “It’s been getting worse. And no one even seems to _notice_.”

Blaine didn’t know anything about Kurt’s friends or family, or anything other than what he’d already seen, so he had nothing to say about that. Anything he could have come up with would have sounded trite, anyway.

Instead, he said, “ _I_ noticed. You’re not alone.”

Kurt closed his eyes, jaw clenching, and he took that moment to pull on his new shirt in one swift movement. Blaine took a step back, recognizing the tension beginning to vibrate through the air as it had before and not wanting to get sucked into that temptation again.

Blaine fidgeted a bit as Kurt straightened his shirt out and ran a few fingers through his damp hair, eyes still closed. Then he ran a hand over his face, clearly trying to regain his composure, and when he turned to face Blaine, his eyes were clear and bright.

“We should go,” Kurt said shortly, though his tone was softened by the small smile he shot Blaine.

Blaine blinked.

“To the competition,” Kurt reminded him, and Blaine realized with a start that he had almost completely forgotten about the Warblers, and oh _crap_ , Wes was going to be _pissed_. Taking in Blaine’s shocked expression, Kurt laughed lightly, saying, “Don’t worry, I think New Directions probably went first. And knowing Rachel, she’ll talk for at least ten minutes before and after. I’m sure they didn’t perform without you.”

“Them starting without me isn’t what I’m worried about,” Blaine informed him, giving him a pained smile. “I wasn’t joking when I said our council leader is scary.”

“Well, then,” Kurt said, clearly amused, “shall we?”

Snatching up his bag as they left the bathroom, Blaine followed Kurt down the hallway to the alleged choir room, where Blaine could hear the sound of a girl talking in loud, enunciated tones. Kurt shot Blaine an _I told you so_ glance before swiftly walking in, Blaine trailing awkward after.

The instant they entered, the entire room turned to stare at them. Even the girl standing up front, looking as though she was lecturing the Warblers, stopped midway through her sentence and placed her hands on her hips, saying, “Kurt! You _completely_ missed our performance! That is entirely unaccep—”

“Can it, Rachel,” Kurt snapped, rolling his eyes. He pointed a thumb at Blaine and lied, “I had to rescue the lost Warbler.”

As one, everyone turned to stare at Blaine. He managed to don his most charming smile and say, “Your school is _confusing_.”

Rachel looked like she was about to argue with Kurt’s explanation, her cheeks flushing bright red. However, she was quickly interrupted by a tall curly-haired man, who placed a pacifying hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks for looking out for our competition, Kurt,” the man said, though he directed most of his attention at calming Rachel down. “Now that your missing member is here, maybe the Warblers can show us what they’ve got?”

Blaine nodded to Kurt, and then swiftly made his way over to where the rest of the Warblers were congregated before Wes managed to kill him with his eyes.

“‘Your school is confusing’?” David repeated in a hissed whisper when Blaine approached him. “Are you on _crack_?”

“It’s a long story,” Blaine said, grimacing as he locked eyes with Wes, who was standing to David’s side and glaring at him with the most severe expression Blaine had ever seen. “Seriously, I’ll explain later.”

Wes glowered at him for a few more seconds before snapping, “Fine. Whatever. You better be ready to perform.”

“Always,” Blaine replied, giving the older boy his most obsequious smile. From the look he got in return, Blaine got the impression Wes was trying not to punch him.

Blaine straightened, glancing up at the New Directions’ kids as the Warbers started to make their way to the center of the classroom. Kurt was sitting alone, arms crossed over his chest as he stonily avoided looking at anyone else. Around him, the other members of New Directions were chatting with each other, waiting for the performance to start, but Kurt seemed wrapped up in himself, like he didn’t even feel comfortable enough to relax in his own choir room.

And right _then_ , Blaine decided that enough was enough.

He turned quickly to Wes, grabbing the older boy by the arm before they made their way to the center.

“Hey,” he hissed. “Forewarning.”

“About what?” Wes replied, arching an eyebrow in a way that quite elegantly said _I’m curious but still fucking pissed at you._ The man had those expressions down to an art form.

“I’m going to be flirting with someone during the song,” Blaine told him succinctly, though he managed to look sheepish about it.

Wes glared at him. Then he asked, “Is that going to change anything about your performance at all?”

“Uh,” Blaine started, thinking it over, and then concluded, “Well, no. Probably not.”

“Then flirt away,” Wes allowed, rolling his eyes. “But when we get back, we’re going to talk about you being late.” What he left unsaid was, _and I’m going to make you cry._

“Awesome,” Blaine replied, trying not to outwardly flinch in the face of Wes’ anger.

He trotted after Wes and the other Warblers as they arranged themselves in the center of the room. Before he made it to position, David hissed at him and gestured toward the bag that Blaine still had slung over his shoulder. Wincing, Blaine turned to put it back with the rest of the Warblers’ things, and then paused.

Abruptly, he changed course, and walked straight over to Kurt, who was staring at him with a wary, wide-eyed look on his face.

“Hey,” Blaine said, leaning past a pretty black girl and holding his bag out. “Will you hold onto this for me?”

Kurt blinked. He grabbed the proffered bag, slowly replying, “Sure,” as though he wasn’t clear what it was supposed to mean.

“Awesome,” Blaine said, beaming at him and enjoying the way the two girls in the front row were staring at Kurt with wide smiles. “Now,” he said, hearing the Warblers begin their notes for the song, “If you’ll excuse me...?”

Blaine turned away, grinning, and began to sing.

 

 

\--  
and then Blaine SERENADES THE SHIT out of Kurt, _just because he can._


End file.
